Page 91 of Birthright

“I know,” he said with his usual gruff arrogance and opened the door. “Time to go.”

I followed him out of the bathroom and let him put on my blades, checking and rechecking the sheaths and harnesses. When he finished, he stood straight, hands on his hips. I saw the tiniest of cracks in his emotional armor. His chin quivered for an instant before he could reign it in. My throat tightened. He gave me a slight dip of his chin. A nod of approval. “You got this.”

We’d said it all before. But. If this is the last chance.

CHAPTER 38

Then we headed out of the manor to the main courtyard where everyone was gathered around the perimeter of the open area designated for the battle.

“Bevin,” I leaned down and whispered. “What would Witches’ voices be used for?”

“Not the best time to be studying potions, Keena.”

I smiled at her. “You never know.”

Bevin looked frightened but she managed a meager smile. “Old, old mimicking spells. Foul-smelling stuff too. It requires a blood sacrifice, so we no longer use it in earnest.”

Doran’s voice announced the beginning of the ceremony. We filed out to the center of the courtyard with Feldema and her group doing the same just to our left. She looked tired and weak, but held her head high, a look of confidence on her face. Did she really feel that confidence or was it a mask?

Doran spoke of the prophecy and the rules of the Battle of Birthright. I let my attention wander through the crowd who’d gathered to witness such an occasion. Most were listening to Doran but some watched Feldema and me. I caught Jordan’s worried look. He changed it as soon as he realized I saw him. Manus was at the ready. Cliona watched me too, not Doran.

Others were gathered around by their species in neat little cliques. Witches were gathered by the stand that held Doran, Bevin, and other members of the council. The Slaugh were off to one side of the garden-turned-battleground. They hadn’t come to any of the other festivities, but I made eye contact with Trammel and he gave me a respectful nod.

Then I looked over at Feldema. Her hands were trembling just slightly. It was a mask. How much power did she have without Nessum? I let my power reach toward hers. It barely sparked in return. She jumped and glared at me.

He had drained her… Why? What was his plan?

“So let the battle to prove birthright and the vengeance of Agnus the Betrayed show us the true holder of the seat of High Priestess!” Doran shouted, and the crowd went wild. “The victor presides over the council of the Kith in a year and one day.” There was another great cheer from the crowd. All attention moved to the two of us. We bowed to Doran.

Feldema turned to me and made her formal bow, which I returned. I tried to meet her gaze as we straightened. She wouldn’t, and I could see she was still trembling. She took her stance and made a hasty lunge for me, a small blade drawn. I was able to get out of the way easily and she tumbled to the ground.

The crowd all gasped at her weakness. I turned and walked toward the trees. She was weak and without power. I couldn’t fight her. I could easily kill her and myself in the process.

She lunged again and I just spun out of her way. She fell again and got to her knees. “Just do it and get it over with, old Witch! Kill me and put me out of the misery of this life!” She screamed it at me. More gasps and lots of conversation rippled through the watching throng. This life? In the cell she had said something about other ways of living. Had Nessum promised to make her a Vamp after she died? He wasn’t here.

“She is too weak!” came a shout from a Gremlin among his group. “You have held her and drained her power, Doran!”

Doran started to explain that the cell wards only prevented her from using her power while contained—when smoke and an odor that turned my stomach replaced the usual jasmine smell of the forest. Feldema smiled. Something was about to happen and I didn’t like the sense that I had no control over it.

The foul smell filled my nostrils. Old spells… Bevin’s explanation of Witches’ voices floated through my mind. I thought back to the old grimoires I had studied over the past and remembered a spell in one of them, a spell that would cast the voice of another to the wind.

As I made the connection, I heard my voice—not coming from me, but the woods. The Witches had been killed to steal my voice!

I searched the woods beside us for anyone but saw nothing. Feldema was still yelling at me to finish it all. I looked at her face. Her eyes were dancing with delight. She was far too happy to be begging for death. She knew I could no more kill her than she could me.

Through the fine smoke that came from just inside the woods, I started to hear my own voice cast a deadly fireball spell. I quickly grabbed up some of the earth from beneath me. I could destroy a potion like no other and I needed to now. I spat on the dirt and flung it into the woods toward the smoke. It disappeared with a sizzle.

“No!” Feldema shouted. “You will kill me or I will kill you. Either way, we die!”

She lunged from her kneeling position and managed to slide the blade into my side, near the same place she had the first time we fought. She drew it out. Some shouts and jeers came from the crowd. I stumbled and put my hand to the wound. A burning sting took my breath away, making it a few seconds before I could thrust her away using my Demon power.

The thrust pushed my twin backward and she landed against a tall pine tree. I cast again and wisteria vines wrapped around her, holding her to the tree and keeping her immobilized.

I felt dizzy. Not from the wound, which wasn’t bleeding that badly. I felt a gentle push on my mind. It wasn’t Feldema’s power. It was too strong for that. I stumbled again and closed my eyes to find the source of the power. I reached for the ley and pushed it through Manus to filter and close my mind. My bubble went up inside my head as Foras had taught me, making it easier to find the silvery streak of unusual power trying to touch me.

The silver of it was wondrous—angel magic. But it was blotched with blackness that looked like tar floating in a clean river.

Nessum.